The Search

The clock strikes 3:30 a.m., and I stand in the middle of my closet, exhausted and a bit panicked. I have to be up in three hours to depart for Vegas, and I still have yet to pack a single item. I fall into pisces mode. All my plans for writing a list of outfits to wear, each carefully chosen to match the event, down to the frilly undergarments, have come crashing down around me. I now just grab for things that make me feel good. My pirate tank, a skirt that was cheap but everyone asks if I got at Ann Taylor, my favorite black dress and six – yes, six – different push-up bras with matching panties, thank you very much. I know that I am only to be in Vegas three days, but you never know what might come up. So all is tossed into a suitcase with a couple of pairs of heels, and I crawl off to bed.

Now I am in Vegas, standing in the middle of my hotel room, preparing for fight night. I throw back the lid to my suitcase to discover a card from TSA. I have been searched, well more correctly, my suitcase has been. Something did not seem right to them. Odd, since I only had clothes and shoes in this particular suitcase. Do you think, perhaps, it was the six bras that concerned “them”? Six bras – three days – she must be up to something. Search her bag! I feel slightly violated. I begin to pull things from my bag, wondering how intensely it was searched, only to discover a chilling bit of evidence. The belt to my sundress has been tied to the strap of the sundress in a big blue bow!?!? So un-pisces, and too organized, I think of the large gruff bag handler that formed this bow with my belt. Thank goodness I did not bring Pierre!